Heaven

Struggles

Looking at a finished piece of work, it’s hard to appreciate everything that went into it. That always frustrated me when I was a painter. People would look at a panel I’d just finished, for example, and say, “That’s really amazing—I could never do that,” without ever considering what went into the process of painting. They seemed to think it was some sort of magic, as if I uttered an incantation and the panel painted itself. But as any artist will tell you, there’s no magic involved—only long hours of hard work. 

So it’s perhaps ironic that my first thought upon seeing the dazzling geometric dance on a wall when I arrived at the Azara was that the patterns could only have been produced by God himself. But even when I found myself in Abualjafna’s workshop, I didn’t realize how much work—how much menial, boring, difficult labor—went into creating those divine arrays. Truly, behind every miracle is a bucket of sweat and more than a little frustration.

For my part, there was plenty of frustration. It turned out that cutting tiles was incredibly difficult. First I began with a large square, upon which I traced the shapes I needed with a pencil. I scored the lines with a blade and then clamped the tile to the table while I applied pressure in attempt to break it along the scores. Once the piece was free, I used sandpaper to smooth out any imperfections. But it was always a gamble as to whether it would break with the scores or perpendicular to them—sometimes I could swear the tile was playing with my mind. And then there was all the forethought that went into getting the most out of each large square by arranging the pieces I’d cut out so as not to waste any precious tile. The result was often a very convoluted puzzle. 

Despite my attempts to waste as little tile as possible, I amassed so much wasted tile—scraps that cut according to their whims—that it hurt to think about it. Jakob assured me that it was okay, that I’d get the hang of it soon, but I wasn’t so confident. 

I could never imagine getting better at cutting tile. Not when I thought it was stupid and pointless to be doing it in the first place. Why must I do this in preparation for painting? The thought crossed my mind with every mistake. It didn’t make any sense. 

More than that: It was unjust.

At one point I gave up caring. I didn’t care how many tiles I wasted because they weren’t my materials. I wasn’t losing out at all. Moreover, when I tried to do a good job, it never turned out. If it’s going to turn out bad either way, why even try to do it well? 

“What are you doing, Adam?” said Jakob.

“It’s just not working. I can’t do this.”

“It doesn’t look like you’re even trying. What’s wrong?”

“Look, I gave this a try, and I can’t do it. I score the pieces like this, I clamp it like this, I break it like this, and look—the tile breaks however it wants. It’s like the tile is playing some kind of joke on me.”

“You’re just stressing yourself out, Adam. Take a break, go outside. Try again. Your technique is fine—it’s not the tile that’s messing with you, it’s you messing with yourself.”

“What’s the point?”

“I can’t tell you that. It’s personal. For me, it’s my family. When I was in your position, I knew that I had to do a good job to advance, to get one step closer to going home to my family. But if you haven’t got any family, then you’re right. There is no point. Just keep breaking tiles until they feed you to the lions to entertain the caliph.”

“I—I have a daughter,” I said. “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you before. It’s just—I don’t know where she is, or if she’s even alive. When the vikings came I told her to go hide in the forest. I don’t know if she’s safe. Maybe they saw her and chased her down and she’s in a harem somewhere. Even if she made it, how could she have survived this long? And if she survived somehow, she could still be anywhere. How could I ever hope to find her?”

“You’ll never know if you don’t try, Adam. Everything seems difficult at first, especially from far away. You’ve got to try. For your daughter’s sake.”

“You’re right. It’s just—”

“It’s not just anything. You work hard, you do a good job, and then before you know it you’ll be off on your way to find your little girl. You can do it—you just have to believe. Put your trust in that God of yours.”

I thought of Ania. I put my trust in God. And the next day, against all probability, everything just flowed. Cutting tiles was a cinch, and over the course of the day I amassed piles and piles of identical triangles, rectangles, stars and even circles. It was coming naturally, and I was proud of myself. And better yet, I was finally happier with my situation. I wasn’t a worthless, good-for-nothing. I didn’t have to waste materials that weren’t mine. I could be successful. 

In my mind I saw Ania in the field where she always played, and I ran up and gave her a hug and told her I’d never let go. It was possible, I told myself. Not only possible, but it was my future. I saw it, and it was going to happen. 

But every good feeling I had would be turned upside down, though, when I came to the workshop the next day.